The wind. Her black, leather case bumped her

The chilling city breeze swept itself past Lucy’s face, as she
strolled through the park, her royal blue coat flapping in the wind. Her black,
leather case bumped her left knee every other step.Gently placing her instrument of many chords down, she set up base
camp for the day just to the left of the marble statues. A delightful spray of
recycled water sprinkling like snowflakes through the air, in an articular
single line protruding from the sculptures. Marble cuts, worshipped, wished
upon like a magical well, where endless bronze circles break the algae coated
surface, in hope for a miracle to come true. Lucy wished that everyday could be a day her and her grandfather
could coexist in, to produce the symphonies every musician longed for. The calm
motion of her horse-haired bow gently rubbing up and down her chestnut violin,
assembling a line of notes that so articulately complimented each other. The
talent that infused Lucy’s blood was gifted so kindly to her by her grandfather,
however today would be a much different performance. Gently resting, Lucy unfolded the cream sheet she had so greatly
embellished with fold after fold. Scribbles of frustration and damp smudges
that blurred the edging of her calligraphic writing. Lucy sat and continued her
unwelcome composition.  The pigeons flooded the footpath, fasting of the scraps tourists
so giddily left behind. Lucy giggled under her breath, as two overly fed
pigeons fought over the last crumbs of bread, wings fluttering in distress and
throats rumbling. They were only to be defeated by a broody looking seagull,
bully. Lucy took to the cream coloured paper with her pencil managing to
furnish a few joining words. Yet nothing seemed to be coming together. Life
seemed to once fit like a puzzle, every bump and curve welding nicely, where
crotchets and quavers flattered the harmony, and Grandfather’s calm voice
echoed the walls of her mind. Where have those days gone. As the day moved from morning to late afternoon, Lucy had
retrieved her glacier white knitted mitts. Covering her pale bare hands from
the cold, she glanced at the violin case that lay at her feet. Tucking her
decorative cream sheet under her thigh, she leant forward and recovered her violin
in hope of gaining inspiration. The wooden frame pervaded by chestnut and deep
oak lining, nylon strings lead down the fine neck of the carefully hand crafted
instrument. A few dents echoing at the adventures her granddad once lived. As
she delicately placed it just beneath her defined jaw she so gently grasped at
the bow. Closing her eyes, her hands skillfully descended the neck of the
violin plucking as the bow resonated the surroundings. It was merely Lucy and
the music, the music soared. Filling the air, as it overrode the car horns and
heels of the passing streams of people. The escape music gave her was wild, like a drug, addictive and
daring. As the heavy flow of a lunch hour monochromatic sea came to an
ease, workers stopped in their tracks to listen to Lucy’s production. She
opened her eyes to the fall of change, flooding like a tsunami into her worn
casing, the odd coin jumping to escape. A rush of emotions ran through her
veins like water streaming into a dry rivulet. It reminded her of the fond
memories she once shared with her grandfather, as they performed a synchronised
duet across the park, from where she was currently. His warm laugh would fill the air as they clashed instruments on
their way down the path. Between spontaneous giggles, Lucy would nudge at her
grandad, begging him to repeat his melodies. His sharps complimenting her
flats, the harmonious sounds of Christmas jingles sparked the ears of
passersby. The humble flow of Lucy’s bow soared to the rhythm of her grandfathers,
an experienced elder enveloping his knowledge in Lucy. These cold winter nights
had never bothered her, as she was encapsulated by his pure talent and love. A
musical language she understood so fluently had filled her ears and she
memorised his soothing qualities. The crowd dispersed as Lucy thanked every person three times over
for their generosity. Having no more room in her case, she lay her violin next
to her. The simple chords her fingers so eloquently expressed was an escape
from the crumbling world that was so horridly haunting her. Retrieving the
cream sheet from beneath her thigh, she sat there staring blankly, apprehending
what lay next. With little progression of her composition she urged herself to
seek her pathway home.                                                                      *** The night air pressed itself up against the window Lucy peered
from. She traced her fingertips along the frosted glass and drew a harmony she
was once taught. Recoiling her hands into her pocket, she warmed her artistic
fingers. Lucy reclaimed the selfish cream sheet she so hesitantly wanted to
finish. Heavy with frustration, she longed for an end to this unfathomable
puzzle piece. As she creased the paper one last time, she read the tireless
words, In loving memory. 

The violin rested comfortably at the top of her neck, as she
strummed the chords, like a given extension of her body part of herself she
could no longer mask. Letting go of the past was hard, but composing her future
was accessible. She reached forward into the stringed leather case and
retrieved a blank sheet of paper. As four parallel lines formed on the page,
Lucy composed her next chapter.

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